Unfinished Story Snippets // and why no one should ever read them

While I have all manner of exciting life updates I can’t wait to fill you in on, I’ve decided to save them for another time. Today, I want to direct your attention to a fascinating comment I received on my latest art post:

And by golly, is that a challenge? Because I’m taking it as one.

(Thank you, Sam Kowal, for providing the inspiration for this blog post. Your comment resulted in me rummaging through my extraneous notebooks and computer files for two hours as I hunted down all the strange, unconnected things I’ve ever written.)

Keep in mind, these have nothing to do with my WIP. They are entirely random trains of thought I had that sounded so good in the moment I decided to write them down. Some of them are from books I plan to write one day, and I jotted down a paragraph or two out of sheer impatience. Some of them belong to vague story ideas I can’t even remember the premise of. Some of them are simply… weird.

Without further ado, I present…

Twiller now leaped down from his lofty perch with a cry that was meant to be savage, but sounded more like a tortured chicken.

This is one of those kooky descriptive phrases that pops into your head when you’re inordinately tired and sounds like a WONDERFUL idea until you read it when you’re not tired and experience an all-encompassing feeling of… just…

Why.

“There are days when all your hopes and dreams give a tremendous, flying leap, and you think maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally reach a cloud.” She sighed, fiddling with a discarded scrap of leather. “And then…”

He made a muffled sort of snuffling sound that was supposed to be a sympathetic sigh, but doubled as a confession of how monstrously unequipped he was to handle this line of conversation. “Thud?”

She slumped face first onto the wooden counter, squashing her nose flat. “Thud.”

FYI, this is an accurate model of every conversation Anna and I have ever had. She has emotions. I don’t. She wants to share them for me. I am uncomfortable.

Lilac Bertrand swung her legs idly in the midsummer heat and watched a pearly white satellite swallow the sun.

May or may not be referring to the dream this came from. May or may not be a cross between historical fiction and dystopia.

May or may not be extremely confusing.

Tonight, he sees blood.

Yesterday Aro’s frightened eyes haunted his subconscious, and the day before that, his subjects’ — no, his victims’ — starving sobs. But tonight, blood spills over the tea-cup of his mind. Blood in his mouth and blood coating his eyes. Blood dripping into his ears and deafening him to everything but the beating of a heart that would be better off silent.

He screams.

Not because of the blood. But because a beating heart means he’s still alive. And he is terrified of being alive.

Running footsteps separate the truth of his dream from the falsehood of his waking existence. The blood drains away, replaced by silk sheets and trembling hands. His heart still beats — madly, wildly — hammering against the inside of his chest as he lies tangled in his bed, gasping and shaking and acting like an utter child.

The door opens.

No, the door is ripped off its hinges by the crazed beast on the other side.

“Those are hard to replace, you know,” he chokes out, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and willing his lungs to cooperate.

Joeb — for only Joeb could tear down an entire door in one jerk — doesn’t reply. His footsteps pound across the room, taking him to the window. Then back again. He peers into the hall, looking for assassins, trying to do his job.

He thinks is master screams because of assassins.

He doesn’t know the half of it.

*blinks* Well then.

I promise there’s a story behind this. I don’t randomly write emotional trauma for the sake of writing emotional trauma.

*much coughing*

Really.

“I’m not qualified to be a big brother. I’m not even qualified to be the wacky uncle who’s allowed to babysit despite having zero skills at childcare!”

This is like one of those sarcastic writing prompts you see on Pinterest, except it’s mine and has even less meaning than they do.

“What is she?” he asked, awestruck.

“Why, she’s a pixie, stupid. And do stop gaping — you look like a fish.”

Let’s give it up for Mary Poppins somehow working her way into my unfinished snippets.

“What would you do if you weren’t a prince?”

“Why should I waste mental energy thinking about that? I was a prince, I am a prince, I always will be a prince. Speculating on what if’s is pointless; I’d rather think about what am’s. What am I going to do? Etcetera.”

“Alright,” she prompted, “what are you going to do?”

He sighed, and in that moment, ceased to be a boy at all — or a prince, or even a human being. Instead, he looked more like a misplaced piece of household furniture; A ridiculously ornate armchair shut away in the pantry, or a china cup lost among the frying pans. Running a hand forlornly through his hair, he sighed. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

As a general rule, princes (and princesses) are overrated, but this guy isn’t so bad.

“I’d like to announce that I officially have no clue what I’m doing.”

“You’re a spy! Of course you know what you’re doing!”

“Your statement is erroneous in multiple points. Firstly, I’m an agent, not a spy. There’s a difference. And second, what makes you think we know what we’re doing? Most of us just wander around and hope we don’t get shot.”

“…you are the most incompetent government employee I’ve ever met.”

“Clearly you haven’t met very many.”

97% inspired by the Mrs. Pollifax books and 12% inspired by the sloths in Zootopia.

“You know, if it we weren’t destined to destroy each other, we might have been friends.”

“Perhaps… perhaps we already are.”

*annoyingly sappy music plays in the background* *everyone dies of feelings* *Sarah gags*

Why is this in my notebook??

“W-what are y-you?” Hucklebum stammered.

The creature gave a long sniff. “I’m a Snicket, you fool. You must be prodigiously stupid to not know it — you’ll notice that I am not asking what you are.”

Yes, I named a character “Hucklebum.”

No, I am not proud.

Please don’t ask what a Snicket is.

“Are you going to kill me?”

She sighed and let her gun clatter to the floor. “Oh, it’s no use now. I don’t blame them for firing me; how can I be an assassin when I fall in love with every person I’m supposed to get rid of?”

For the record, I despise romance.

“I think it would be grand to be extraordinary,” she said, and like most girls, she truly meant it. But also like most girls, she hadn’t thought through what being extraordinary would entail. Along with the adventures, heroes, dragons, villains, and other such magical circumstances, nothing extraordinary ever comes without first having crushed dreams and a broken heart pave the way.

If she had known this, she would not have been so eager for the fantastic. If she had known this, she might not have dreamed her dreams at all.

Probably my favorite thing I’ve ever written, and it doesn’t even belong to a story. Someone, find me a story to put this in. I rather like it.

So there you have it, folks! The weird inner workings of my writing. This craft is quite conducive to melodrama, I must say.

What are some of the random, bizarre snippets you’ve written down? How’s Camp Nano going for you? If tomatoes are really a fruit, does that mean ketchup is jelly?

Some of these were like, “Haha, that’s funny.” others were like,”WOW. THIS IS DARK.” others were like, “Wooooww these have lotsa big words.” and then suddenly I stumble across the Hucklebum one and I snort so hard it hurts and I’m like, “Did Sarah seriously make that his NAME?” and then I totally question on the scale of 1-10 how stupid I am ’cause I have no idea what a Snicket is and I’m totally asking you: what is it? 😂
…and yes, I totally read everyone of them 😝

A Snicket, dear Hucklebum, is a tall lean creature with a deep voice made for long narratives in which everyone dies and everything upon everything goes terribly awry. A Snicket can typically be found retelling the unfortunate events of a particular family’s tragic life as well as musing the deep meaning of a wide variety of words all the while speaking as though they are performing before a large audience.
In short, Snickets are insane word lovers with penchants for the tragic and if one has spoken to you, consider yourself and everyone you know already dead.

I relate to Twiller XD

ALSO yes, the thud thing? About the emotions? — Totally me. I got all these little siblings of mine who will walk up and go, “I stubbed my toe!” Or “I fell and cut myself and now my foot is gushing blood, SEE?” And then there’s this awkward silence where they stand there waiting for a response, so I just go “oh, I’m sorry” *awkward pat*
Like, they just walk up and tell me these things but they aren’t asking me to do anything! They’ll show my some sort of battle wound and then after my poor attempt at showing any sort of sympathetic emotion they skip right off again, happy.

It’s even worse when someone is crying. Like, what do I DO????? Do I give them a hug? Or just sit there by them? Do I ignore it? Or… Like, get them something? Say something? Or do I just leave them alone????
I NEED SERIOUS HELP HERE PEOPLE. XD

That… is an epic creature you just made up. 😵 I applaud you. After digging around in my files a bit more, I actually found a description of the Snicket:

He was a smallish, gangling looking creatures, with a long pointed nose that drooped over his mouth. His ears looked very much like bats’ wings, and his hands and feet were webbed between the fingers and toes. His skin was a muddy, greyish color that did little to soften the dour expression that seemed a permanent fixure on his face.

“I say, that was terribly rude!” said the Snicket, picking himself up from the ground. “I ought to tell the Figglers on you, indeed I should!” Hucklebum thought it wise not to ask who the Figglers were, for he said it in such a way as to invoke thoughts of overcooked eggplant and rotten cabbage.

So….. yeah. 😂

It’s even worse when someone is crying. Like, what do I DO?????”

I FEEL YA. The worst part is that despite being completely uncomfortable, you really do want to make this poor emotional person feel better. Unfortunately, that is not something we will ever be good at…

The goofiest thing I have ever written is probably this excerpt from my journal…

“With this, Plywood, in hand. I began the arduous struggle of ridding the Garage-y Wilderness of its filth, dirt, and lumber, purging it of its resident orcs, spiders, and other miscreants, and restoring it to its former glory. Admittedly, it can seem hopeless. Our beating hearts grow cold and frightened, like a scared frog. Our courage shrinks like the fur of a wet cat. But then, the gleam of Exposed Flooring shines suddenly, a gray light to those in cobwebby darkness, and our spirits are lighted once again with hope!”

That was only half of it. Apparently cleaning the garage, sugar, and I are a bad combination…

Ahahaha, that was amazing 😂 especially the one about incompetent government employees—very true lol.

Because there is zero competition. (Sorry Econ nerd moment.) We can’t just stop using one government and switch to another because of bad customer service. You know, someone should write a story about after we populate Antarctica where there are several different governments and everyone can choose which government to be under . . . .

*falls in a laughing heap*
*picks self back up and attempts to regain dignity by donning a British accent*
Those, my dear, were examples of sheer silliness and marvelous brilliance.
When can I be expecting the assassin story? XD

😂😂😂Ach. That was delightfully wonderful. I should have known that of course you were capable of rising to that challenge. Between the snippets of humor and melodrama I feel as though I’ve just consumed a complete and fully fulfilling story, although I have absolutely no idea what happened.

I’m particularly fond of:

“There are days when all your hopes and dreams give a tremendous, flying leap, and you think maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally reach a cloud.” She sighed, fiddling with a discarded scrap of leather. “And then…”

Oh and here’s a snippet from a story I began but never finished. Which is good because it was actually a horrible rip-off of The Hobbit. XP

“Once, in a dugout in the side of a high bank beside a creek, there lived poplin. It was a pleasant house, with the front door opening into a sitting room with a fireplace and sofas and a coffee table in the center that had belonged to this particular poplin’s great-grandmother. There were bookshelves lining the walls, and above the mantel piece was a map of The Moor. On the mantel piece was the legendary quill-feather pen of this poplin’s grand-uncle, who was a poet, even though most poplins are not so inclined to poetry.”

Hey, you!

–I’M SARAH–

Oddball sarcasm enthusiast, INTJ, and Christian teenager whose main ambition in life is to glorify my Savior while writing stories that convict and inspire. Welcome to my haven of cheerful stupidity: a place where wisecracks abound, geekiness is encouraged, and I endeavor to show the world that finding joy in the little things of life will make you happier than a hobbit.

I also have a tendency to fry people’s minds. Read on at your own risk.

-Follow the Insanity-

Because don't you want to get a lovely little notification every time I write something profound?

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Sarcasm Through the Ages

Sarcasm Through the Ages

Warning!

This blog contains large quantities of snark, found to be harmful by the Department of Dullness in several countries. Read at your own risk. If you are above the age of nine, leprous, or suffering from a poor sense of humor, please consult your doctor first. Not recommended for flamingos or people with a phobia of glue. Trigger warning: frequent allusions to BCD (book character death) syndrome. Age discretion advised when dealing with the subject of potted plants.